


The Black Cat

by Midonyah



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cats, Halloween, Head Massage, Lazy Saturday, M/M, hair petting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:04:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5108864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midonyah/pseuds/Midonyah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>« So, do we ? »</p>
<p>John looked up from the cups, and frowned. Obviously Sherlock still had no problem speaking to him when he wasn't in the room. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and reached for the sugar.</p>
<p>« Good morning to you too, Sherlock. Do we what ? »</p>
<p>« Have a cat. »</p>
<p>John poured the coffee and put the cups on a tray, added two sugar cubes and a spoon in Sherlock's cup, and made his way to the sitting room towards his own armchair.</p>
<p>« No, we don't. At least not that I know of. Why ? »</p>
<p>« He's in my spot. » Sherlock said, pointing to the right side of the sofa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Black Cat

**Author's Note:**

> This "one-short" is part of a regular Fanfiction exchange event on Facebook.... And this week it took place right before Halloween night!  
> This "Halloween Special" was henceforth born, but it turned out much less serious than what I intended.... and much more cuddly. Which is a good thing! I didn't have any time to write more chapters, but if you guys like it, I might continue the story.
> 
> Enjoy, and... Fic or treat!

John Watson yawned as he slowly reached the bottom of the stairs. Scratching the back of his head, he readjusted his loose pyjama bottoms a little bit, and made his way to the kitchen.

He had rough nights lately. Sherlock, for some reason, wasn't sleeping at all. John had offered all the help he could in the beginning of the week, had tried to coax his friend into comfortable clothes, relaxation methods, herbal soothers, warm milk, even some kind of weird zen application on his phone, but nothing seemed to work. The first few days hadn't been so different from the usual strange sleeping patterns of his flatmate, but they were now approaching the seventh day, and John Watson was tired.

There was something exhausting about having to spend a lot of energy in trying to get your flatmate to sleep, only to be waken up yourself by the sounds of a sad song on the violin, or a cloud of smoke coming from the kitchen, or simply the constant mumbling and keyboard tapping for eight hours straight.

 

Tonight, though, there had been no weird experiments gone wrong, and no violin. John smiled to himself, thinking he must have slept through the mumbling, and smiled even more when he saw the familiar mop of dark curls on top of Sherlock's armchair.

God, he wanted to ruffle those curls so bad.

Instead, he cleared his throat and made for the kitchen, craving for coffee. Sherlock would probably steal his cup, so he might as well make two of them from the start.

 

« So, do we ? »

 

John looked up from the cups, and frowned. Obviously Sherlock still had no problem speaking to him when he wasn't in the room. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and reached for the sugar.

 

« Good morning to you too, Sherlock. Do we what ? »

 

« Have a cat. »

 

John poured the coffee and put the cups on a tray, added two sugar cubes and a spoon in Sherlock's cup, and made his way to the sitting room towards his own armchair.

 

« No, we don't. At least not that I know of. Why ? »

 

« He's in my spot. » Sherlock said, pointing to the right side of the sofa. John put the tray down on the small table besides their chairs, and looked at where his friend was pointing. Sure enough, even if the whole sofa usually was 'Sherlock's spot', there was something dark against the cushions closest to the window.

John put his hand over his mouth, observing the fluffy spot, reached his eyes and rubbed them for a second, and finally looked back and forth between Sherlock and what could not be mistaken any further for a black cat, rolled onto himself and obviously enjoying a nap, oblivious to the rest of the world.

 

Luckily for him, John Watson had learned not to be surprised anymore when it came to Sherlock, the flat, the experiments or even the cases, so he did not freak out. Instead, he composed himself very quickly, sat in his armchair, put the cup with the spoon in it in Sherlock's hand, reached for his own, and slowly took a sip of steaming hot coffee while looking at the cat. He seemed alive and well, judging from the slow rise of his fur-covered body, and John smiled at Sherlock, waiting for an explanation.

 

« Well ? Did you bring him back from a case ? »

 

« No », Sherlock answered, his eyes still riveted on the sleeping cat.

 

«  Did you find him in the street, then ? Or is it Mrs Hudson's ? »

 

«  I don't know. I was reading a book, I put it down, wanted to lie down on the sofa to read the next chapter, but there was a cat there. »

 

« Right » John said, looking at the closed window. « Right. Well... How long has he been there, then ? »

 

«  I don't know. The sun was beginning to rise when I looked up from my book. »

 

John looked at the book in question, but saw nothing extraordinary (except that the title seemed to be in German, but other than that, nothing weird about it).

 

«  Allright. He must have... Climbed through a window, maybe. »

 

«  All the windows were closed. I checked. »

 

«  I don't know, then. Perhaps you were so oblivious to the world while reading your book that you opened it for him. I've seen stranger things happen, when you're focused on something else. »

 

Sherlock looked like he was about to sulk, but his favourite sulking spot was already taken by the cat, so he crossed his arms instead and said nothing more. John rolled his eyes, finished his coffee cup, put it down and stood up, slowly making his way to the sofa. When he got close enough, he made a small noise with his mouth that sounded like a kissing sound and got Sherlock very puzzled, reached for the cat and slowly put his hand on it.

 

The cat opened his eyes, but didn't seem to mind being interrupted in his nap, and... curled around John's hand. He let out a small purring sound, and Sherlock watched closely as John moved his hand closer to his nose, and let it sniff it thoroughly. The cat sniffed and sniffed, then rubbed its cheek on the hand and decided to look at Sherlock. The detective did not move, not really knowing what to make of this behaviour, so he just stared back.

After a few moments, seeing as the cat and his flatmate were apparently frozen in time, John cleared his throat and picked up the cat, and after making sure was wasn't getting scratched, put him down on his lap. He quickly examined him, and was a little surprised to see absolutely no resistance. The cat seemed healthy, not aggressive at all, maybe just a little sleepy. It had stunning eyes, between green and blue with a touch of grey, not unlike Sherlock's.

 

John looked up at his flatmate, and shrugged.

 

«  Well, it's a male. Pretty young, I think. I've never seen it before. Maybe... Maybe it's Halloween ? »

 

«  … What could you _possibly_ mean by that ? »

 

«  Well, you know... Tomorrow's October 31st ... Halloween ? Black cats and pumpkins ? »

 

« Right. So it's an evil witch's cat, or a ghost furball... Thank you for your input, John. »

 

«  I didn't.... » John rolled his eyes. « I didn't say that. And it's not evil, it's actually pretty sweet. Want to pet it ? »

 

« No. »

 

« Why not ? »

 

« Reasons. »

 

John laughed, and scratched the cat's head. Sherlock was still looking at it, perhaps trying to deduce how it got here. Still amused, the doctor put the animal down back in 'Sherlock's spot' on the sofa, got up, and patted his pyjamas to get rid of the few cat hairs on them.

 

«  Right. Well, I was looking forward to a lazy Saturday, but... I guess this is a nice break from cases. Unless it turns out to be a case, you never know. I'll get it to the vet, and see on the way if anybody's put up 'missing' posters about it. It's obviously domesticated. »

 

«  What ? »

 

« Well, it's obviously someone's cat, Sherlock. »

 

«  Yes. It's mine. »

 

John laughed, but nor for long, looking at how serious his flatmate looked.

 

«  I... what ? Sherlock, you can't claim the cat ! »

 

« Why not ? I found it. It's mine. »

 

« You didn't find it, you didn't even see him enter the flat ! It's lost ! »

 

« It's not lost, it's in my spot. »

 

« It's not —» John looked at the ceiling, took a deep breath, and calmed down. When he looked back down at Sherlock, he was surprised to see him stand up, walk to the sofa and scoot up against the cat. The cat itself moved very little, except to roll up against Sherlock's thigh and put up a protective paw on it. It was, John could only admit, very cute.

 

«  Ughh.... You know what ? Fine. We'll wait until tomorrow and see if anybody put up some posters. I'll... look around the flat to find some food. »

 

« You don't have to. There's a bunch of pet care products and amenities up in Mrs Hudson's attic. She put them there after her last cat died. »

 

« Right ».

 

John, resigned, picked up the tray with the cups (Sherlock's still untouched, but probably too cold for his liking by now), and headed back to the kitchen. After putting down the tray, he tried to find a few arguments, but decided to just enjoy his lazy Saturday, and headed up to his room to get dressed and ready to see if Mrs Hudson still had all that cat stuff. He did _not_ want to have an argument with an exhausted Sherlock, and if the « Black Cat case », as he was definitely going to call it, could keep him busy for a few hours and allow him to have a nice, calm Saturday in, he sure wasn't against it.

 

Half an hour later, a freshly showered John came back down, raising a suspicious eye when he saw Sherlock on the kitchen floor. He seemed to be looking for something right at the bottom of the fridge. The fridge's door was still open, so he couldn't really see, but when he came close enough to look at what he was doing, Sherlock looked up and... smiled. A genuine smile, not one of those creepy ones.

 

«  We're out of milk. »

 

« What, already ? Sherlock, what—» Looking down, John then saw the cat crouched on the kitchen floor in exactly the same position as Sherlock (or maybe it was the other way around), licking the last of the milk from a little Petri dish. John sighed, the cuteness of it all overpowering what he was about to say. Instead, he simply closed the fridge's door, picked up the empty milk carton on the counter to put it in the recycling bin, sighed again when he saw that it was full of other non-recyclable stuff again, and bowed down to pet the cat.

When his hand touched the fur, he got a little purred reward, and they both heard a little 'meow' that sounded very much like 'thanks for the milk'. Giggling, John looked at Sherlock again, and smiled when the sight of his adorable flatmate down on the floor next to a black kitty that looked just like him hit him.

 

He quickly got up again, for fear of letting the affection show in his eyes long enough for Sherlock to notice, and resisted the urge to pet Sherlock's unruly curls as well.

 

«  Right. Milk. I'll ask Mrs Hudson. Be right back. »

 

Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, too busy to look at the cat cleaning himself thoroughly, and John raised his eyes to the ceiling before stepping out of the flat.

 

 

 

 

Maybe an hour later, he came back with his arms full of boxes and plastic bags.

 

«  Little help, Sherlock ? »

 

When Sherlock didn't move from his armchair, John, not really surprised anymore, put down all of his bags and boxes and began sorting through the stuff. Mrs Hudson didn't have the heart to throw away everything, and as old people often did, had decided to store it all 'just in case'. And it was a good thing too, they now had a big litter box with half a bag of spare litter, two plastic bowls, something that looked like a leash or a harness and two different collars, a few toys (which might actually be a bit too old to use, but maybe they could make something of them after a good wash), some cat food cans (expired by almost a decade, but John did not want to stop Mrs Hudson's gift-giving streak because she seemed so happy about the cat, even though John told her a dozen times that it was all temporary), and a little bag, still sealed, of dry cat food that seemed good enough for the week-end.

 

The cat was back on the sofa, enjoying the very rare rays of sun occasionally reaching him through the window, and Sherlock seemed... almost hypnotised by it. But then again, after a week of sleepless nights and days, it really was no surprise.

 

John set everything up, explaining everything to Sherlock about how the litter box worked, in case he had erased it all, showing him the cat food and the bowls, but then seeing how the plastic bowls were... kinda dirty, he decided to keep the Petri dishes and picked up two big ones from the kitchen table, washed them again just to be sure, and set them up with food and water near the fridge, picking up the one where all the milk had ended up.

 

He shook his head, remembering about the milk he had completely forgotten about, and decided that today he would just stick to coffee.

 

Preparing two cups again (barely rinsing the ones from earlier this morning, to be honest), he found a place for the litter box in a corner of the kitchen, and when the coffee was ready, brought back the tray, now with added biscuits.

 

He glanced at Sherlock, still watching the cat closely, and reached for his hand, putting his cup with the spoon still inside in it, and closing his fingers around it. Sherlock looked up, then looked down at the coffee cup, then up at John again.

 

The doctor smiled, picked up a biscuit, and held it to Sherlock's mouth. It barely took a second for him to take a bite, and John rolled his eyes, shoving the rest of it in his friend's mouth. He was _not_ going to be the biscuit holder. Well, if Sherlock asked, he probably would, but... that was not the point.

 

«  Still not sleepy ? »

 

Sherlock shook his head from left to right, munching on his biscuit, trying to get the rest of it in his mouth without touching it with his hands. It was rather endearing, and surprisingly effective.

 

« Right. I'll look at the ads, see if there's any potential cases for you, okay ? You.... You watch the cat. »

 

Sherlock shook his head again, this time up and down, half of his biscuit still in his mouth. John went to the sofa, and sat down in the middle. He liked to read through the ads in the sofa, and no cat was going to prevent that. The cat didn't seem to mind, though, he only readjusted himself and closed his eyes back.

 

John opened his newspaper, and started reading. When he finished his coffee cup, he put it down on the table, and resumed his reading, but then his newly freed hand brushed against some soft fur, and he began to pet the cat absent-mindedly. It was reassuring, and really soothing to have a little life-form softly purring against him, and he scratched him behind the ears and below his chin when the cat moved a bit to accommodate his hand.

 

 

Suddenly, he felt the cushions dip on his right side, and looked up his newspaper as Sherlock was... lounging and turning a little to settle into a good position.

 

 

Looking absolutely bored with life, John asked « Sherlock... Do you want the sofa ? You know... You could just tell me, instead of ignoring my presence like that, it's insulting. Let me just —»

 

«  Play with my hair. »

 

« — put the newsp.... What ? »

 

Sherlock scooted closer, mimicking the cat on John's other side, and put his head closer on his lap. His eyes were closed, and there was absolutely no question of consent or personal boundaries present. Just... Black curls all over his lap, mirroring the tail that was slowly brushing back and forth against his thigh.

 

«  Play with my hair », Sherlock reiterated. « The cat's asleep. I'm exhausted. It's my turn. »

 

And with that, the detective pushed a little at John's thigh with his head, obviously encouraging him.

John did not really know what to think. God, he wanted to. That was _definitely_ not what normal flatmates did. But he didn't care. He didn't have a normal relationship with the man anyway, and Sherlock probably had no idea what a _normal_ relationship between flatmates looked like.

 

Slowly, John switched his newspaper to the other hand, and very carefully put his hand down on Sherlock's head. He was still braced for protest, ready to laugh it off in case it proved out to be just a stupid experiment, but nothing happened. Reassured, he began to pet Sherlock's head, very very carefully. He was tentative at first, knowing that Sherlock was not used to close physical contact, but when he saw a smile creep onto his lips he smiled as well and let his fingers roam through the curls.

 

«  For.... For how long ? » John asked, hoping Sherlock would answer 'forever'.

 

«  I'll tell you. »

 

John bit his lip, completely forgetting about his newspaper. He lightly tried to comb the curls through his fingers, and tugged at one of them to untangle if from the rest. After a little more combing, satisfied, he used his shortly-trimmed fingernails to gently scratch Sherlock's scalp.

 

As a doctor, he was well aware that after a week of insomnia, Sherlock most probably walked around with a headache all the time, and that massaging his scalp would stimulate circulation and help increase its serotonin levels, which would relieve the pain a little.

As a friend, he was simply delighted to hear Sherlock elicit something between a moan and a groan, happy that his scratching was having the desired effect.

As.... as John Watson, ex-army doctor, blogger to a famous detective, and flatmate to the most beautiful human being he ever had the pleasure of setting his eyes upon, that little groan shot straight to his groin right next to Sherlock's head. But he ignored it, looking down at his hand, slowly tugging at the dark curls.

 

He felt the cat move a little bit on his right side, and looked up at the telly. He could see his reflection in it. Cat on his left. Him in the middle, useless newspaper still in his left hand. Sherlock on his right, all curled up against him, wrapped in his blue dressing gown, his feet dangling from the other end of the sofa.

 

John looked back down, and smiled. He reached down a little bit, and caressed Sherlock's neck very softly, trying to alleviate any tension he could find. He hesitated for a minute, remembering Sherlock had only talked about his hair, and was about to ask him if this was okay, when he heard a very little moan, and felt his head move around very slightly, readjusting itself in an even more comfortable position.

Sherlock was not about to tell him to stop. Not for a few hours, at the very least, seeing as he was already sound asleep and didn't seem like he was about to wake up soon.

 

John allowed a fond smile on his face, sighed, reached for the newspaper again, and resumed his reading, his right hand still gently untangling the curls and scratching Sherlock's head. He could do this all day.

 

Lazy Saturday, indeed.

 

… Maybe the cat could stay.

 


	2. Friday 13th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> « Something wrong, Sherlock ? » 
> 
> « Yes. I can't sleep. » 
> 
> « I can see that. Want me to bring you anything ? » 
> 
> « No. » 
> 
> « Want me to go to another room ? » 
> 
> « No. » 
> 
> John chuckled. « Want me to pet your hair again ? »
> 
>  
> 
> « … Yes. »

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I decided to add another chapter, since people seemed to like the first one. :)
> 
> Still a part of our Facebook Fanfiction Event (which you can come and join over here: https://www.facebook.com/events/1070264826317228/ ), this week's update was on Friday 13th, sooo... No serial killers or anything, but some serious snuggling. Does that count?
> 
> I really enjoyed reading people's comments, they really motivated me to write some more, so... Thank you for the support, and happy reading! <3

John's hand was still gently caressing Sherlock's hair when he felt him stir, about two hours later. The cat on his left hadn't moved an inch, and he was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable because he hadn't dared move himself for fear of waking up his exhausted flatmate. It turned out that a couple hours were enough to recharge his body, and he smiled when he felt the long limbs slowly stretch, then heard a sound between a moan and a protest emerging from the sleepy head beneath his hand, now completely still but still protecting the perfectly untangled curls.

Sherlock stretched again, and John realised that he had been completely curled on himself and against his thigh, seeing how his body nearly doubled in size and his legs almost reached the bookshelf.

 

«  Did you sleep well ? » John asked, a bit afraid that Sherlock was going to be angry after being found in such a helpless position.

 

«  Yes, quite. You didn't stop »

 

«  Well, you didn't tell me to. »

 

«  Hmm. You can stop, now. »

 

John realised that he had inadvertently resumed his petting, and removed his hand hastily. « Oh, sorry. Right. »

 

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable at all. Sherlock resumed his little ball-like position, then lifted up his head to check on the cat. Seeing that he was still soundly asleep, he smiled, and then decided to scratch his head gently over John's lap, which made the doctor smile as well. John let go of his newspaper, long finished, and offered gently :

 

«  Want me to make you some coffee ? »

 

Sherlock looked up, and nodded. « That would be nice. »

 

«  Well, I'm a nice person, what can I say ? »

 

« True enough. »

 

Sherlock scooted a bit, letting go of John's thigh, allowing him and stand up and stretch himself, then proceed to the kitchen to fix two cups.

He looked over his shoulder while waiting for the water to boil, amused to see that Sherlock had reclaimed all of his spots on the sofa, except for the little one on the right where apparently the cat was now tolerated.

When he came back in the sitting room with the two cups of coffee, he was almost sad that he couldn't sit on the sofa and pet Sherlock's hair again, but even though that tender moment was gone, there remained an afterglow that he basked in for the remainder of the day. Sherlock stayed extraordinarily calm during the rest of their Saturday, as if his little nap had quieted down his brain. John did not dare remark on it, and simply enjoyed it while it lasted. After all, it would probably not be long before the next case, or the next « bored overdose », and he did not look forward to patching up bullet holes in the wall again.

 

 

On Sunday, John woke up without any alarm, or explosion, or call from Lestrade. It was magical. A perfect, normal Sunday morning.

He began lazily stretching, reaching for his charging mobile to check on his messages just in case there was a national emergency he had managed to sleep through, and frowned when he felt something foreign against his left feet. Rolling his eyes, saying good-bye to his precious normal moment, he lifted his head to see... the cat. Not sleeping or anything, just... laying there with a possessive paw draped over his feet.

John looked at the door to his room, slightly ajar, thinking he must have left it open last night.

Sitting up, he scratched the cat's head, smiling when he saw it rubbing his cheek against it.

 

«  Good morning, you. » said John, now scratching behind the hairy black ears « Did Sherlock move around too much last night ? »

 

Expecting no response, he petted the cat a little while, genuinely enjoying the moment reminiscing him of Sherlock's nap the day before, and finally headed downstairs, the cat in his arms. He left the door to his bedroom slightly opened, in case he wanted to climb back on the bed during the day.

 

It was clear when he entered the sitting room that Sherlock had not slept last night. The kitchen table was covered in experiments, and there were a few books scattered on the sofa. The man himself was at the table looking through his microscope. John put the cat on the floor, and headed for the cupboard where he had stored the pet food.

 

« Morning John. »

 

Wow, he was actually acknowledged this morning. That was a nice start.

 

« Morning, Sherlock. Rough night ? »

 

John filled the cat's little Petri dish with his food, and picked up the other one on the floor to clean it up and refill it with fresh water.

Sherlock was still looking at his microscope.

 

« Rough, but interesting. »

 

« I woke up with the cat this morning. Why didn't you take him to bed ? Might have helped you fall asleep. »

 

«  Didn't go to bed. »

 

« Right. »

 

John poured himself a bowl of cereal, headed to the fridge to get the milk, frowned when he remembered – for the third time – that he still hadn't bought a new carton, and went for some toast instead. He prepared two slices for him, silently thanking Mrs Hudson for the butter and jam in the fridge he didn't remember buying, and prepared one slice for Sherlock that he put on a plate and slid right next to his elbow, nudging him a little bit just to get his attention.

John bit into his piece of toast, waiting for his coffee to be ready, and gazed at the mop of curls inserting a new slide into the microscope, carefully avoiding the toast.

 

« So.... Insomnia still here, huh ? »

« Maybe. I didn't really try. Lestrade texted me last night, saying he couldn't convict that Clown fellow we caught last week without sufficient proof. I've almost got it, just need to get the right sample to match, and bring it to him in the morning. »

 

« … It is morning. »

 

Sherlock lifted his head up suddenly, first looking at John, then at the window, then at the cat at his feet that had finished his Petri dish and was carefully cleaning himself up behind the ears.

 

« Right. »

 

John smirked, resisting the urge to ruffle Sherlock's hair to tease him, and got up to get his coffee. He placed two sugars inside another cup and stirred it before putting it next to the plate of toast – still untouched – and sat back. Sherlock said nothing while John slowly sipped his coffee, but that was more than all right and certainly not out of the ordinary.

 

When his cup was empty, John stood up, looked around for the cat but he was nowhere to be found, and smiled at the pile of slides on the left side of the microscope.

 

«  Well, I'm heading off to the shower. Let me know if you need any help. »

 

« Hmmm » came a little grunt from the kitchen.

 

« And eat your toast. »

 

No little grunt this time.

 

 

 

 

 

When John got out of the shower, the apartment was empty, and all the slides had disappeared. Apparently, the Clown was going down.

Which was a bloody good thing, because that had been the scariest thing he had seen all week. In a way, he was glad it was Halloween tonight, because he had less chance to run into another creepy costume. Still shuddering at the thought, he powered up his laptop, and began to work on the story. It would make a good Halloween post, if Sherlock had managed to gather enough data to convict the creep.

If not.... It would make an even better Halloween blog entry.

 

 

 

It was about 4PM when Sherlock came back home. John had expected him way earlier, and had already finished his writing, waiting for the results to write the ending accordingly.

The cat was lounging in 'Sherlock's spot', basking in the afternoon sun, and John was sitting right next to him, looking at a Halloween Special on the telly, some crap TV about the scariest real serial killers of all time, wondering how long it would have taken Sherlock to catch Jack the Ripper.

 

The detective in question looked positively exhausted as he hung up his coat and crashed in his chair, letting out the longest sigh in the history of 221B. John almost giggled, and tried to give it a few minutes to let Sherlock simmer, but gave up after about sixty seconds.

 

« Everything all right ? »

 

« Administration is exhausting. Apparently the whole country stops working on Sundays, but the criminals don't. I don't understand the logic. »

 

John laughed. « Ha, that's right. Beats me as well. »

 

« Unsurprisingly. »

 

John ignored that last comment. An exhausted Sherlock was bound to criticise everything in it's reach, and he was the closest right now, he was actually braced for it now. Almost immune.

 

«  Did you get the evidence ? »

 

« Of course. » Sherlock sighed again, rubbing his eyes. « I'll tell you all about it tomorrow. »

 

« I'm working, tomorrow. It's Monday. »

 

«  Tonight, then. Just... later. »

 

John shot a concerned look at his friend. He really did look exhausted, trying to lounge in his chair with his shoes still on, probably wrinkling his suit beyond repair.

 

« Sherlock ? Did you eat at all today ? »

 

« Don't remember. »

 

That was a clear no.

 

« How about you go to your room and take a little nap ? It did you some good yesterday. »

 

« It's going to be freezing. I let the window open. »

 

John looked in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom.

 

«  You what ? Why ? »

 

« Toxic fumes. »

 

As if that was an acceptable answer. John took one look at the cat, and stood up, gently squeezing Sherlock's shoulder.

 

« Here, take the sofa. Take off your shoes first, okay ? I'm gonna close that window. Is anything going to attack me in your bedroom ? »

 

« Of course not, John, don't be silly. » groaned the detective.

 

« Right. Come on, take off your shoes. And mind the cat when you dramatically drop on the couch. »

 

 

John made his way to Sherlock's bedroom, opening the door slowly – just in case – and shuddered at the temperature. He quickly crossed the room and closed the window, then proceeded to look around the room for more cats or foreign creatures, but there were none. He even looked under the bed, warily of course, but nothing jumped out to claw at his face, which was a small victory after all.

The bad was even made, but he suspected it hadn't been used since the last time he saw it that way, so... No small victory there.

He made his way back to the sitting room, letting the door open so that Sherlock's room would heat up quicker.

 

 

Sherlock had taken his shoes off – which was good, because John was _not_ going to do that for him – and was curled up against the cat. Not asleep, he was mumbling something about electric current, but still resting, so, that was good.

John turned off the telly, and grabbed the book he was currently trying to read. Trying, yes, because Sherlock had a tendency to spoil the endings for him every time, so he had actually ripped this one's last twenty pages and hid them somewhere so he couldn't check if Sherlock was right when he would eventually make his deductions.

He poked a little at the fire he had started earlier in the afternoon, not wondering any more where that dreadful draft had come from, and settled in his armchair.

 

Sherlock stopped mumbling after a few minutes, but tossed and turned a lot, although he _was_ careful not to annoy the cat too much, which John found extraordinary.

 

Five minutes in, he grumbled. John lifted up his eyes, checked on him, and offered :

 

« Want a blanket ? »

 

« No. I want to sleep. »

 

John rolled his eyes, but shut up and resumed reading. Even when trying to sleep, the man was distracting, and he frowned after reading the same sentence twice and realising he had no idea what it was about. From the sofa rose a terribly annoyed groan, and John wondered for a moment if he was going to be cast out of the sitting room for reading too loudly and preventing Sherlock to fall asleep properly. He smirked – as if that was going to happen – and asked without even lifting his head :

 

« Something wrong, Sherlock ? »

 

« Yes. I can't sleep. »

 

« I can see that. Want me to bring you anything ? »

 

« No. »

 

« Want me to go to another room ? »

 

« No. »

 

John chuckled. « Want me to pet your hair again ? »

 

« … Yes. »

 

John froze. He had offered that half-jokingly, and he looked up from his book at Sherlock. The man looked miserable, all tangled up in his long limbs, his suit definitely wrinkled beyond all recognition. _That_ was definitely a bad sign.

Just to be sure, John asked again :

 

« Sherlock ? »

 

« Want me to say 'please' ? »

 

John considered it. Maybe another time. For now, he was contempt just being able to play in Sherlock's curls.

 

« That's all right. I know you mean it, deep down. »

 

« Hmmm. »

 

« Right. Scoot. »

 

John marked his page with his index finger, and stood up, trying to picture where he could sit. He opted for 'Sherlock's spot', and picked up the cat gently, sat down in his place and put the cat back down in his lap. He let it go, and allowed him to settle a bit, turning on himself a few times before lying down lazily over his thighs, giving the impression that he had been there the entire time.

 

Then, John grabbed a curl and gently tugged on it in his direction.

A sleepy head followed, as Sherlock _slimed_ towards John, eyes still closed, settling his head over his left thigh, sharing the room with the cat. When he was comfortable, the detective gave a little nudge to John as well, to remind him to start petting.

 

« Right » whispered John again, and he let his right hand down and started to gently stroke Sherlock's hair.

He resumed his scalp massage, played with a particularly soft curl for a minute, tangled another around his index finger, and watched as Sherlock's body went limp in about five minutes, feeling Sherlock's muscles relax as he fell asleep once more at a remarkable speed.

 

Eventually he opened his book again, being very careful not to remove his hand for too long when turning a page, and stroked Sherlock's hair lovingly for a very, very long time. It felt like forever, really, and that was more than okay. Sometimes Sherlock would turn his head, or mutter a word, but other than that he was sleeping soundly. John had to put down his book eventually, because the sunlight was too dim now and he didn't dare make a move towards the lamp. He looked at the clock, surprised to see it was only 7PM, and he had been gifted three hours of bliss. He smiled, feeling really happy right now.

 

He was beginning to doze off himself when someone knocked at the door, quite loudly. Sherlock immediately jerked up, as if someone had poked him. John was happy that his hand wasn't too tangled in the soft curls, otherwise that would have been a sour ending to an otherwise tender moment.

Sherlock quickly composed himself, and John wondered if he was embarrassed somebody might see him all curled up in John's lap, or if he just hated to be seen when he was not at full cognitive capacity.

 

The detective looked at John like it was his fault someone had knocked on the door, and then frowned towards it. John offered :

« Client ? »

 

Sherlock shook his head and rolled his eyes as if that was the most preposterous deduction ever, and got up towards the door, ruffling his hair back in place on his way.

 

He opened the door, and John saw him just standing there, looking at what he was seeing. Intrigued, John raised his voice a little and asked :

 

« Who is it ? »

 

Sherlock looked unsure, which was a rare sight in itself.

 

« I... Who are you ? »

 

« I'm a piwite ! » said a little tiny voice from the hallway. « Look, I've got a hat ! »

 

John laughed, kind of relieved. Of course. Halloween.

He quickly got up and went to the door, only to see the most adorable little pirate in the seven seas. It was a little boy, around four or five, maybe, with a pirate hat a bit too big for him on his dark hair.

 

« Oh, my. Hold on, mate, I've got some treasure for you to loot right here ! » Said John, going to the kitchen cupboard where he had put a big bowl of chocolates. He offered some to the boy who smiled, said 'thank you' in a very polite way, and went on his way, descending the stairs slowly – but very fiercely, no doubt there – because the steps were a little too high for him.

 

Sherlock closed the door, eyeing John suspiciously.

 

« No case ? »

 

« No case, Sherlock. But it _was_ an adorable 'piwite'. We should expect a few more visits tonight. »

 

Sherlock frowned a bit, then went straight to his bedroom without another word. John shrugged, put the bowl of chocolates next to the door and decided to go back to his armchair and watch some telly, since he didn't get to hear the ending to the Clown case after all.

 

About an hour later, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom and went straight to the bathroom, and John heard the water from the shower running. Eventually his flatmate emerged in his pyjamas and blue dressing gown, and sat in 'his spot' – now cat-free – and began texting avidly. John said nothing, and did not offer any petting, for fear of pushing his luck too far.

After half an hour of texting, Sherlock got up, fetched his own laptop for a change and began surfing the net or researching something, making little grunts of understanding now and then.

 

They got a few children visits during the evening, but Sherlock did not even look at the door once, and John had a good time looking at the children's costumes. The bowl of chocolates was almost empty when he placed it right next to Sherlock around midnight and went to bed, his flatmate still avidly researching something apparently more important than answering his friend's 'goodnight'.

 

 

On Monday morning, when John went off to work, Sherlock was still on the net, but the bowl of chocolates was empty, with wrappers everywhere, even on the cat who had stayed right next to the computer's warmth during the night.

 

 

 

John missed the week-end's little magic moments on the couch while at work, and hoped that maybe next week-end he would be allowed to do it again. Work was uneventful, with it's lot of oncoming winter cold and flu.

 

When he got back from work in the evening, John hung his coat and was greeted by a hungry cat. He would have to teach Sherlock how to refill the Petri dish while they were looking for its owner. He had looked for 'missing' posters, but had seen none and was decided to bring the cat to the local vet on Wednesday – he got off early on Wednesdays – to see if he could be identified. Maybe he was chipped.

 

 

After feeding the cat, he sat on the sofa, exhausted by his dull day at work. Sherlock appeared in the door frame, still in his pyjamas, looking dishevelled. God, the man needed a case right now.

 

He greeted John with a nod, and went straight to the kitchen. John briefly closed his eyes, and when he opened them it was to look at a steaming cup of tea. Sherlock was looking at him and pushed the cup in his hand, not saying a word.

John, a little struck, whispered a shy « thank you, Sherlock » before watching his flatmate pace back and forth between the window and the kitchen. He seemed preoccupied, clearly upset about something.

John sipped his tea, which was quite decent, but then again when Sherlock wanted to, occasionally, he _could_ make tea, and let him pace back and forth a little while longer, amused.

 

Eventually, he chuckled and scooted over to the right of the sofa and patted the space next to him.

 

« Come on, then. »

 

Sherlock looked at him with surprised eyes, but said nothing and came at once, finding a comfortable position right away, and closed him eyes.

John sighed, happy and amused, and began stroking Sherlock's hair slowly.

 

 

 

They kept up their little ritual. They never talked about it. One day or two it couldn't take place because they were on a case, but most of the evenings when John got back from work Sherlock would make him a cup of tea and began pacing back and forth until John had drunk at least half of his cup before settling in his lap and nudge him a little until the expected hand was in his hair.

Sherlock didn't always sleep, because eventually he started sleeping at nigh again once in a while, but he always closed his eyes and rested without saying a word.

 

 

 

It lasted for about ten days, maybe a little more. Then it happened. John remembered it was on Friday the thirteenth, because he had dared Sherlock to deduce the lottery numbers.

They were lounging on the sofa, John's fingernails slowly caressing Sherlock's head, lost in his thoughts. He thought his flatmate he was asleep, but it turned out he wasn't. The familiar deep voice rose from underneath his hand :

 

«  I won't reject you, you know. »

 

John came back to reality, and looked at Sherlock. He had his eyes open and was looking straight ahead.

 

« Hmm ? »

 

« You're thinking about kissing me. »

 

John felt his face heat up, and removed his hand slowly. He managed an embarrassed « I... What ? » while trying to shift a little and get Sherlock's head away from his lap. The detective's hand shot up and settled on his left knee, preventing him to shift any more.

 

« You're thinking about kissing me », he repeated. « I can see your reflection in the telly. You've been looking at my mouth absently for the last twelve minutes, and your hand has shifted from my neck to my jaw. Your breathing is a little fast, and I can feel you shift a little bit underneath my head. Your pupils are probably dilated. »

 

Well, there was no use trying to deny it now. John didn't know what to do with his hand any more, so he rubbed his eyes with it, trying to determine if this was really happening. He began to apologise.

 

«  Yeah. I uhh... Sorry. » he stuttered a bit, feeling his face getting a little redder. « Sorry, I... got lost in my thoughts, and... »

 

Sherlock's hand squeezed his knee gently, and he smiled, then turned on his back so he could look up to John, satisfied when he saw that his pupils were indeed very dilated, and went :

 

«  It's all right. Does it help knowing I won't reject you ? »

 

John avoided Sherlock's eyes, and managed a shy « Yeah... Yeah, I suppose it does. »

 

Sherlock nodded, then rolled over again, this time facing the interior of the sofa. He took a deep breath full of _John_ who didn't know if Sherlock had shifted higher in his lap on purpose, and closed his eyes.

He nodded again, and assumed his curled up position once again.

 

« Good. In your own time. »

 

 


End file.
